Black Ink and Pink Cherry Blossoms
by littledarkangelhippie
Summary: When she was hardly seven, her world had fallen apart, and Sakura had understood that life wasn't always as beautiful as it pretended to be. And when his world was still warm and good, he thought that things would always be perfect. And then they met. (Somewhat AU)


**A.N.****: I wrote a fanfic called, "Blue Paintings and White Lilies", a naruhina story that explores the possibility of their relationship. **_**This **_**one, adequately named as it is, will be written for the same thing, only for sasusaku. Although, "Blue Paintings..." has mature themes and whatnot, this story won't. It feels wrong to me, for some reason. So I've appropriately rated this "T", because it **_**alludes **_**to adult themes, later on, but never actually touches upon them.**

**Disclaimer****: I do not own **_**Naruto.**_

**Summer Fans and Winter Blooms**

The first time she wore a kimono was also the first time she met Sasuke Uchiha.

Her family had never been rich enough to afford the finer things in life, although she herself had never wanted for anything, happily playing with the paper dolls she had made beneath the wooden wind chimes that _clicked _and _clacked _rhythmically in the breeze of early summer evenings, fireflies spinning about in a rustling field of grass behind her grandparents' home, in the more rural area of the village, short and stubby fingers fastening a friend out of crinkly sheets of drawing paper she had found in the soggy pages of her Baa-chan's shelves. She had been content with simple things, bells and sticks as toys and rice paper and ink as a means of expressing herself. And she had never dared to ask for anything more than she was given, because what she had, she believed, was all she would ever want.

But the first kimono she ever owned was given to her by her grandmother, eyes so green the leaves that fluttered around them paled in comparison, smiling the gentlest of smiles and telling her, in such a richly withered voice that something inside of Sakura warmed so deeply she wanted to laugh and cry at the same time, small hands grasped in the warm and wrinkled fingers of her precious Baa-chan, "You'll be the _most _beautiful girl in the world." And if her grandmother had not passed away that same night, with those very words being her very last, Sakura would not have believed them. And she had never been a religious girl, but, that night, she felt that she was, tears welling in her eyes deeper than any happiness could pierce, held in her parents' arms as her grandfather bowed his head over Baa-chan, who looked so very peaceful she could've been asleep.

For all she knew, maybe she was.

It was a yukata, and she would only ever be able to wear it during the summer, for only the short time span of a few years, before she outgrew its long hems and long sleeves, and had been the color of a sunrise, that fleeting pink that matched her hair so perfectly it was as if it were meant to be, a soft and bittersweet orange that blurred at the very edges of her eyes, brimming with salty liquid she wiped with the backs of her little knuckles, the image of a woman she would never see again burning the backs of her eyelids. Her mother had helped her put it on, soft and fine cloth slipping over her smooth, peachy skin, pulling and tightening until it melded to her childish form nicely. A bright green obi, the color of spring itself, was knotted around her waist, and, with trembling fingers, her mother pinned her petal pink hair up into an intricate braid, wreathed with summer flowers grown in the garden of the house that now had one less person living in it, where they had all shared before; but it might as well had just been her and her parents, for her grandfather was somber and silent, where before he had been the most cheerful person in the world. The geta she wore were made of wood and had belonged to her mother, as a child, and made her awkward and loud, but she wanted to run in them, so fast not even the kites that flew up in the air during the day and sometimes late at night, when it was so hot sweat dribbled down her temples, could catch her.

Her father made her a paper fan, the color of violets, the color of an early night, right before the sun was completely gone, and her mother delicately slid a white and pink comb into her hair, the color of the cherry blossoms that only bloomed in the winter, and they held her hands tightly as they walked away from grandfather's house, and out toward the center of the bustling village she knew as well as the inner chambers of her mind—not well at all, when she thought too deeply about it, which she avoided doing at the best of times—and into the heart of a festival she knew, within the dustiest corners inside her, should not have been happening. (After all, why would one celebrate just a few weeks after the passing of their sweet Baa-chan?) But there she was, and the paper lanterns strung up between every shop of every street, melted away her sadness, for just the shortest moment, and her parents pulled her along, smiling gentle smiles—though she could see the sorrow there behind them; no matter how young she really was, she'd always known these things—to the games and the vendors and the food stands. And the sweet juice of ripe fruits rolled down her little chin, down her throat, where her father wiped with a white napkin, chuckling as she smiled a wide smile, all pearly teeth and shining eyes. And the smell of frying squid, the taste of soft dumplings, the feel of cheerful festivities, washed away all of her thoughts altogether.

For a simple moment of a simple night, she had forgotten she had lost her entire world at all.

And the presents her father had bought her, toys she'd never needed and jewelry she'd never wanted, and the songs her mother sang, of purity and innocence—though ignorance as she knew it to be—with such a broken voice it was almost beautiful, wiped away all the wounds cut within her little heart, smiling freely and laughing in something akin to absolve, though it sounded more like a cackle of thinly-veiled joy, and her parents, for once, gave a sigh of relief. Because they had, for just a little while, lifted the weight off their precious daughter. The only daughter they'd ever have.

But when they turned their backs, interlacing fingers between them because they could not bear to let one another go now with such despair laid before them, despite the jovial atmosphere so heavy in the air, the grin was wiped from Sakura's face, and her green eyes, eyes the same color as her Baa-chan's, glistened with despondence once more.

How could she forget so easily?

And in the sway of the crowds around her, so close together her mouth opened to gasp for much-needed air, she lost her parents. She lost her anchor, and became lost in the sea of villagers, strangers that seemed more like monsters. And perhaps she'd lose her parents in a different way, perhaps she'd find them lying in a dark room, still, lifeless, unmoving, no matter how many times she shook them, and perhaps her grandfather would find her and pull her away again, and tell her, once more, that there is nothing she can possibly do. That they were gone and would never come back. That they would never open their eyes again.

Beneath a tall tree, with branches that were so full of leaves she feared they may bend and break, she cried, loudly, shrilly, begging for God to give her back her world—the world made up of eyes greener than life itself, of a rich voice that could sink deeper within her than any sadness ever could—but no one heard her. The songs played around her, by silvery strings of iron and metal and the sounds of genuine laughter and happiness, drowned her out. And Sakura really felt like she was drowning, tears rolling down her cheeks so endlessly she thought she may fill the whole world up and take everyone with her.

For a second or two, she wondered if anyone here could swim.

And then she saw him, a boy as beautiful as all she was missing and all she'd never known before. His skin was that of fine porcelain and his eyes were blacker than the ink she spilled her thoughts with, with hair that gleamed blue in the light of the paper lanterns behind him, spots of blurred pastel colors that glowed inhumanly with the tears still brimming in her eyes, caught within her lashes. His expression was curious, concerned, and yet blank, thin brows furrowed and lips pulled down just a little. She knew immediately he came from a world much different than hers. His yukata was the deepest of blues, with a red and white obi around his waist and ivory black geta at his feet, a red and white fan gripped tightly in his hand. Rich colors, pure colors, colors she had never seen before, so smooth she thought they were not real.

That _he _was not real.

And so beautiful he was, she thought he might've been an angel, with such finely crafted features and such empty compassion she could hardly fathom a single thing about him. Perhaps he was there to take her, too, just like Baa-chan had been taken.

Her fingers came up to touch him, and his lips parted, obsidian eyes following her action, before he stepped forward, and she froze, small hands as still as the wind around them and yet her heart beating as quick as the fleeting voices behind him, where the festival went on without a single pause. His geta scraped against the dirt, against the gravel, and then squished the moist grass beneath them, and he reached up, those pallid fingers of his, up to her hair where her head throbbed from so many flowers and braids and pins, and she shut her eyes, suddenly afraid of what he'd do. But all he did was adjust the comb in her hair, straightening it and tucking a flower behind it neatly, pulling one wayward bloom from her bundle of tresses to smell silently, stepping back a little.

And she watched, amazed, because he was as gentle as Baa-chan had been, and held all the sweetness she had only ever dreamed of for so long. She blinked, and his eyes were back on her, a faint smile curving his lips and warming the rest of his face so completely it cut her heart just a little, reopening the wounds her parents had tried so hard to sew shut. "Why are you crying?" he asked in a smooth voice, smoother than the juice of ripe fruits and bright green eyes.

She curled her fingers within the long sleeves of her yukata, looking away. She would not tell him of Baa-chan. He had no right to know. She was her secret and hers alone.

But before she could turn away from him, deciding to push him out of her emotions, he caught her wrist within warm, soft hands, bringing her attention back to him. He had tucked the flower behind his ear, beneath and between raven locks of silk, a pink bloom amongst a midnight backdrop, and his eyes were lowered to the hand he held in both of his, lips still tugged into that faint smile. He slid his fan into the curl of her fingers. "You don't have one. Everyone needs a fan at a festival." Before she could say another word, a protest stuck there in her mouth, a voice called to him. He turned, and, past him, was an older boy with long black hair, pulled into a low ponytail, smiling so very gently at him that she felt herself lose a bit of her thoughts right then, dressed in a black yukata, with eyes as black as the angel still standing so near her.

And then he was leaving, waving her away when she asked, "What about your fan?"

"Keep it," was his only response. And they were gone.

Within her feeble attempts to search for her parents through the crowds, her mind was overridden with thoughts of a boy she did not know the name of, stumbling through throngs of rolling gatherings, and only vaguely noticed when she was enveloped in the protective embrace of her parents' arms, pulling her up from the ground and demanding where she'd been. Her father held her fan, such a deep and nice purple, and her mother was fixing her obi, and all she did was hug the boy's gift closer to her, smiling back at them. They could only smile in response, because, wherever their daughter had been, the only daughter they'd ever have, she had found peace of mind there.

And they had gone home, simple as that, back to the sad and empty halls of her grandfather's house, and under the cold blankets of the futons laid out, and she clutched the fan closer to her, because she could not stand the sadness any longer.

~~...~~0~~o*o~~0~~...~~

The second time he saw the cherry blossom trees was also the second time he saw Sakura Haruno.

His parents had always given him all he'd ever wanted, and so much more, and his older brother had never failed to bring peace and happiness to his life, although there was always something there to complicate the other, he was content with what he had, satisfied with the world that had been built around him so carefully. Any toy he ever wanted, any demand he ever asked of, any curiosity left unattended, was met and quenched like that of thirsty soil beneath heavy rains. And it was not until he met her that he realized that nothing in his life had quite been what he had thought, seeing a small girl cry with all the abandon of a storm, whipping across the shingles of his large home and pulling apart the very nails of the foundation of all he knew. He had only seen the blossoms once, but not quite, so focused on staying home and practicing, trying and trying to reach a goal he was sure no one but him could truly ever see, and had not had a mind to see them until that one fateful summer festival, where he had seen a strange looking girl, all by herself, with no fan to be found in her empty, grasping hands.

He did not see her again until the cherry blossoms were in full bloom, in late autumn, when all the other trees were about stripped bare from their leafs. His mother had wrapped him up in another kimono, a simple black color, but only his big brother wore one with him, and had lightly placed her hand upon his shoulder to guide him along with her, down a twisting trail through the woods in their backyard, following a line he had never seen before, between tall oak trees and large, split rocks. The sounds of his brother's geta _clacked _and _scraped _across the dirt path behind them, carrying the picnic basket in his hands, while their father, as per usual, remained at work to look after the police department, having waved them away and turning back to his documents silently. Yellowed leafs crunched beneath his own geta, fluttering down from the trees above, hand curling around his mother's as they made their way through complicated openings and trails until, at last, she sighed and said, "There they are," and gently let go of his hand, pressing her fingers against the back of his neck to guide him ahead of her.

And if he'd ever seen anything look more beautiful, he might've already died and gone to paradise.

So many different hues of pinks and whites and purity, swirling in the late autumn breeze, carrying the sweetest scent he may have ever breathed in before, stumbling forward and reaching out his hands to touch, _just touch_, the pink petals falling down to earth, which kissed his every fingertip lightly, lovingly, and he sighed, bliss filling him to the very brim, shutting his eyes. Faintly, his mother whispered, "We'll find a place to set up. You go play." And he ran, across the open field, scattered with so many petals it may have been a bed of them, scrambling and staggering, a wide grin breaking across his face as the petals flew around him lightly. He stopped, spinning around once in a circle, watching the beautiful trees whirl past in dizzying shades of blushing colors and milky dots, until he saw a curious touch of green where it should not have been.

And there she was.

She did not wear a kimono this time—but the one she'd worn that last time had been so very pretty, hadn't it? Just like the sunset—but she still seemed so very fitting in a place like this. A primrose dress that cut off just below her knees, swishing about the peachy skin there as a breeze passed between them, simple brown sandals made of hem rope and silvery clasps, her hands clutched at her chest and a red ribbon holding back the short hair that nearly blended in with the petals around them, the white ones caught between some strands, falling down around her like feathers. Her wide, emerald eyes watched him in something much like wonder, much like awe, and he felt himself redden under her appraisal, suddenly flustered knowing he was the only one dressed up for the occasion.

But then, he hadn't planned on meeting her here. He'd only been reminded of the trees because of her strange hair. It was pure coincidence, sweet and ironic, to find her here as well.

She was cute in the way that a kitten was cute. Or a puppy. It warmed his heart and he wanted to pet her hair, hold her close, but also in the way that wasn't like other girls. Other girls wanted kisses, and he didn't _want _to give them kisses. But this girl, as pretty as the blossoms around them and as cute as kittens, he did. He wanted to give her a kiss. But behind her ambled an elderly man, he himself dressed in a dark kimono, guiding himself along with a cane and squinting beady eyes at the trees around, searching for his granddaughter.

He backed away before the girl could speak, even though all he wanted, more than anything in the world, was to pull those white petals from her hair, to straighten the ribbon that peeked out from beneath her ear, to take the little flower tucked behind her ear as his own, like before, and smile at her and ask for her name—that's really all he wanted to know, just her name—and he turned to join his mother and brother, sitting atop a checkered blanket, facing the other way and fixing themselves their snacks. He hurried to them, his geta catching between each pile of petals that fell so copiously, flopping down beside his mom, earning a surprised laugh from her and a pat on the hair from his big brother, two gentle smiles turned down toward him.

He only looked back to see her reach a small hand up to her grandfather, nodding his head to whatever it was she was saying, her eyes wide and smile broad—such a pretty smile. Other people began to gather about the place, sitting beneath the falling petals and laughing together loudly.

"Mom," he mumbled, turning away to join them completely. "What happened to the old lady that used to play that song? On the koto."

His brother poured some tea into her cup as she crossed her legs, glancing at Sasuke quickly. "Ah," she breathed, a sad look coming over her features. "She passed away over the summer."

And Sasuke had never felt so heartbroken over someone he'd never known. The old woman wore the prettiest kimono—almost as pretty as the one that girl had worn—and had pulled her silvering hair into a tight bun, a white comb tucked into the fair bundle, fingers dancing over shining strings as she played the trademark song for the trees around them. Not a single mistake. Not a single slip. And he had never been so entranced before, never in his short life.

The sorrow that followed the knowledge of her passing bloomed deep within him, as fleeting as the scent of the blossoms around him.

~~...~~0~~o*o~~0~~...~~

When Sakura had decided to enter the academy, she had been seven and a half years old, and her mother had not approved.

She had watched the leafs completely fall away from the skeletons of the trees, hands curling over the splintered wood of the porch of her grandfather's home, how the fields out back began to seem barren and the fireflies had all flown away. The sky overhead was cloudy and gray, and the scent of rain was heavy upon the world. Her pink hair had been tied back by the ribbon a young blonde girl about her age had given her, baby blue eyes glinting as she told her, teasingly, "_Stop hiding behind your hair. You bring more attention to the things you try to hide,_" and her clothes were pale and rumpled, a white t-shirt and light blue pants, a thin beige sweater and simple gray socks. The wooden wind chimes sang softly in the breeze of early winter, and she followed a silhouetted bird as it flit across the sky with her dazed eyes.

Inside, her parents argued. Beside her, her grandfather slept soundly in his rocking chair. And she remained silent, lying down to stare up at the sky that seemed to want to blind her for all its brightness.

The Academy was where that blonde girl would be going, and Sakura had never had a friend before, so trapped within her broken world that she could not deal with the pain of knowing someone else's judgment. But the Academy offered things in life that no regular school did, and, secretly, Sakura wanted to be a part of it all. How _they _lived was dangerous, those people that protected the village, but what potential did she hold within her? How far could she soar past people's expectations?

She wanted to know. More than anything else in the world. She needed to know.

Her father agreed completely—but only because it meant a distraction for their troubled daughter's mind—and, some time later, her mother finally relented. If they could just pretend they had not lost the pillar of their strength just mere months ago, then they would let her go. Even if it meant sending their only daughter, the only one they'd ever have, to her possible demise.

After a short goodbye to her grandfather, they moved deeper into the village, into a small apartment with only two bedrooms, promising her that she would get into the Academy if she would just be good. And she would be, forever and ever, as long as it meant escaping the shattered remains of her world. (Really, how much had Baa-chan changed for her?)

Next year, the day after New Year's, she would be enrolled, and she would be on her way to becoming a shinobi of Konohagakure, the only village she'd ever belong in.

~~...~~0~~o~*~o~~0~~...~~

His father's eyes were colder than the snow beginning to fall outside his window.

Inadequacy was always a worry at the forefront of his young mind, a heavy weight upon his small shoulders, darkening his already dark eyes and twisting in the pit of his stomach whenever he looked up at his older brother, smiling down gently at him and speaking reassurances that did nothing for all the ice that settled in his heart, thicker than the frost that began to coat the glass of that same window.

Winter came with hot tea and sweet steamed buns, his mother's warm embrace and a fire crackling in the fireplace within the living room they scarcely ever used. And as his mother wrapped him up in her arms, the scent of her perfume, much like the smell of her jasmine tea, held in her slender hands there at his lap, drenched in her silken black hair and her soft clothes. He could lose himself within her hair, long and smooth and as black as a crow's feathers, watching his father clap a hand down proudly on his older brother's shoulder. The way he never would with him.

He never voiced his troubles to his mother, who rocked back in forth so soothingly that he felt himself be lulled to sleep, just like a baby would be, and her melodious voice hummed a song he'd know anywhere, but he felt that, even with how carefully he hid his worries, behind quick smiles and muted laughter, she still saw right through him. Because her hand came up to brush down the wilder strands of his own hair, her lips curling up into a tender smile that melted away his unconvincing mask, and she told him, so faintly he felt it touch his very heart, that she loved him more than anything.

And Sasuke would always believe that, no matter how much snow piled up outside his window or how much frost painted the glass.

He bundled himself up with thick layers of coats and a long scarf, and hurried outside to find his older brother, standing in the backyard with a look of absolute concentration on his face. Strands of slate black fell from his ponytail, and puffs of white clouded before his mouth, face tinted pink as he, over and over, slammed an axe down upon wood, a large pile forming beside him for the fire inside. Sasuke could wait perhaps a hundred days, watching his older brother silently, diligently, going about the task of following their father's orders, movements mechanical, methodical, and very nearly graceful. But black eyes met his and the axe stayed wedged into the stump, a tired smile tugging the very edges of his older brother's lips as he wiped his hands, most certainly freezing from the cold that bit what skin had remained uncovered, down his thin black shirt. His big brother would never let him worry.

"Nii-san," he said, a puff of white following his every breath.

"You'll be starting at the academy soon, Sasuke. You need to train well." His brother knelt and poked his forehead playfully with a cool finger. "Don't fall behind."

And, to Sasuke, that could've meant a thousand things, and nothing at all, at the same time, cupping a hand, protected by a gray mitten, over his mouth to cough harshly, nodding silently at his brother's advice.

"Let's get you inside. You'll catch a cold." And into the warm confines of their home they went, a rivalry left behind with the axe that remained stuck within that stump.

If only to burn away the ice in his father's eyes, Sasuke would try his damnedest, every day, at that academy.

~~...~~0~~o*o~~0~~...~~

**A.N.****: Since I'm working on a few other stories, please don't expect me to update too frequently. This story has been on my files for ****_months_ and I figured I was stalling for too long.**

**If you guys like it so far, tell me. I do need the support to actually get back to these things. I get writer's block far too easily and it annoys me to no ends.**

**Review please! **


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